


tired of rushing, racing and running

by TheKitteh



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Body Worship, Caring Derek, Consensual Underage Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times, scarce as they are, when Stiles needs to slow down and unwind. And Derek always knows how to help him with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tired of rushing, racing and running

Despite the (un)popular opinion going around, thanks Scott, the whole _we-are-alive-nothing-ate-us-_ sex isn’t Stiles’ favorite kind of sex. It just happens the most often, given the way his life has turned out lately. Oh no, don’t get him wrong, it’s _awesome_ , due to important reasons that include climbing Derek like a tree, fucking against the wall or on the floor or wherever possible really, and Derek’s fingers that bruise so damn much that Stiles feels it for days after. And well, during those frantic times? Derek fucks like he lives, all deadly intent and ridiculous focus, blood on his mouth and dirt on his hands, so there’s that.

 

It’s _glorious_.

 

Yes, Stiles is perfectly aware of how that sounds and what it says about him, fuck you very much.

 

It’s not his fault that his life is made of deadly, straight out of a horror movie occurrences that take over ninety percent of his free time.

 

It’s only natural that pain and pleasure got mixed up somewhere along the way. Nowadays, nothing says _I love you_ like, you know, a perfectly timed growl or a little of consensual wall-smashing. Not that Derek says _I love you_ , being the big bad creature of the night and all, but you know, their history is more physical than most, so Stiles doesn’t see how some manhandling could be anything but arousing by now.

 

Which is SO not the point, right now.

 

The strange kind of angry-hurt-make-up sex isn’t his favorite either, just so you know.

 

 _Anyway_.

 

What’s the seriously best are the scarce and few between days when nobody wants anything, there is no monster attack, no drama to deal with and his father gives him this one, looooong look that clearly says _just don’t tell me why you’re going to Derek’s, please, I don’t want to arrest the kid again._ His father is the best there is. He deserves bacon for that. Not that he knows, but yeah, totally deserves bacon. Also, Scott learned the hard way _not_ to call during those days, so hell yeah, Stiles can do whatever he wants.

 

Or, well, do whoever.  

 

Oh alright, Derek is the one actually doing the doing, but you know, technicality.

 

But the real point is that no one really _gets_ Stiles like Derek does. Stiles doesn’t even try and think why is that, because hello, that’s one door he’d like to keep closed, but that’s the simple fact. And yeah, it took them a while (oh boy, is that an understatement) to work things out, but now, months and weeks later, Derek just... _knows._

 

He knows that Stiles gets so wired up sometimes, that he forgets how to unwind. That he needs _not_ to talk all the time, that he needs to switch off his maniac thinking and somehow quiet down the ever-present buzz in his head. That Stiles looses himself in everything and nothing at all and needs to be herded back.

 

Derek knows it even before Stiles does and it’s all kinds of mind-blowing.

 

And that’s why on _those_ days, Stiles finds himself all kinds of sprawled all over Derek’s bed, lost in a happy haze of post-coital bliss and white sheets. He loves Derek’s bed, he really does; it’s big and comfortable and the way the light falls through the  windows is fucking magical. He can stretch in a star-sprawl all over it and still feel like there are miles more of warm fabric to burrow himself in. He feels loose in every single meaning of the word, his body sated and aching, his mind amazingly blank and quiet. It feels like he’s been fucked within an inch of his life, feels it deep within his bones.

 

Derek’s not far, bare feet making soft tapping sounds as he moves around the room. Stiles can see him from underneath half-closed lids, enjoys the sight of muscles moving in those powerful legs or rippling in the strong back. The werewolf is gloriously naked, comfortable in his skin like no one Stiles has ever met before. He has no shame to speak of and Stiles can’t blame him; with a body chiseled by Michealangelo himself, he’d flaunt it too at every possible occasion.

 

Derek is beautiful, Stiles thinks for the God knows which time. He’s beautiful, broken and barely mended and so fucked up and _he’s Stiles’_. They make the oddest pair, between all of their differences and ugly past that was made by razor sharp claws and punishing words, but somehow they work, their cracked, rough edges catching. It may be just for now, a breather amidst all the crazy around them, but Stiles _wants_ , in a dark and ugly way like he never wanted before.

 

The bed dips when Derek comes back, all smooth skin and supernatural heat, a large strong palm skimming down the length of Stiles’ spine and wiping all of the thoughts that once again started to buzz in his mind. He wants to arch into the warm touch, but Derek just presses him back into the sheets with the hot weight of his body. “Shh,” Derek hushes him softly, mouths wetly at the base of Stiles’ neck. Fingers curl around the sharp lines of his hips, they fit into the throbbing bruises from earlier and Stiles turns boneless. “Easy there. I’ve got you.”

 

Stiles’ breath hitches when Derek bites down with blunt teeth, holding him down by the scruff of his neck like a goddamn, misbehaving pup. It pulls blood right to the surface, causes a shiver to run down the length of his body. There’s that gorgeous sound building up in Derek’s chest, the not-so-much-purr-not-quite-a-growl, the one that vibrates through them both and makes Stiles’ toes curl.

 

One of Derek’s hands moves, slow and deliberate, fingers kneading into the swell of Stiles’ ass. The grip he has on Stiles’ hip still is hot and unrelenting and Stiles can’t move. Doesn’t want to move, not when blanketed with Derek’s ridiculous body and a hot tongue laving at the bitten skin. He must have made a sound because Derek shushes him again, all soft words and kitten soft licks, as his fingers pat gently against his rim. They slide easily, in and out in a gentle no-rhythm that’s less about fucking and more about Derek’s just checking him if he’s alright. Stiles’ all sloppy and open, he’s been here for hours and he knows Derek likes him like this, plaint and loose and warm. He could fuck him again and again, all through the evening and into the night if he wanted to, with Stiles barely making a noise or a move.

 

It’s not as much as werewolf thing, as a Derek thing, but hell if Stiles will ever complain.

 

Stiles would happily let him.

 

“So good,” Derek’s words are a damp slur against his burning skin, as Derek kisses and licks down the curve of Stiles’ spine. “You’re so, _so_ good for me.”

 

It’s the other way round, Stiles manages to think before Derek’s tongue joins his fingers and causes his brain to short-circuit. He’s cleaning him, with careful licks and gentle fingers and fuck, after all this time, it shouldn’t be as hot but it is. It’s the fucked up combination of sex and being taken care of, of a gesture kind and downright sinful in the same time that causes damp heat to pool in the depth of Stiles’ stomach.

 

He hides his face in the pillow, the cotton cool against flushed cheeks, as Derek licks and eats him out. There is no way he’ll manage to come again today, teenager stamina or not, because Derek wears him out in the best kind of way. His cock still valiantly tries to fill, his hips stutter ever so, but it’s just that, a futile attempt at something not within his reach.

 

When his nerves begin to sizzle and his breath stutters, catches in his clenched throat, Derek stops, knows when it’s too much. He pets Stiles’ sweat-slick back clumsily, drags his mouth over the sharp jut of a hipbone and smears kisses along the rise of his ribs. His hands are warm and gentle, soothing Stiles down from the overstimulated high, his lips are wet and welcoming when he mutters sweet nonsense.  

 

Derek turns him over gently, licks up his neck and presses soft kisses along his jaw. “Come on, Stiles, look at me.” Derek breathes against Stiles’ mouth and oh, he closed his eyes somewhere along the way.

 

The room is all orange and gold and Derek above him looks nothing short of glorious, with wild hair, slick lips and those stupidly gorgeous eyes of his.

 

So ok, maybe Stiles loves him a little bit.

 

“You good?” Derek asks, still braced above him like it’s nothing, like he’s not bracketing Stiles with legs and arms and everything he is.

 

Stiles has to swallow a few times and still his voice comes out wrecked when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” He’s so good that he couldn’t ever explain it, for all his way with words. He’s warm and safe, and so blissfully _silent_ he can feel the strong beat of Derek’s heart above him.

 

He’s loved and he loves.

 

Derek presses in, kisses him quick and barely there, before he casually flops down next to Stiles’. His hand immediately splays over Stiles’ stomach, thumb rubbing small circles. He looks dopey, Stiles thinks and grins up at him. The werewolf scoffs – mutters something about Stiles being a lunatic - pulls the human boy close, closer than it would be deemed possible.

 

Stiles is only too happy to be manhandled into being the little spoon, still not feeling like he’ll move even the smallest toe in the next few years. And having Derek wrapped around him, pulling him closer and closer with every breath is a feat all on its own.

 

Their legs tangle, Derek buries his nose in Stiles’ hair and inhales deeply. That awesome purr-growl rumble begins in his chest again and Stiles huffs a tired laugh.

 

“You’re such a weirdo,” he rasps, tattering on the edge of sleep already.

 

Derek’s hold tightens, “Shut up, Stiles.”

 

It still sounds like an _I love you._

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me and play with me (the-kitteh) at tumblr!


End file.
